This morning when I was driving to work I heard "For the Longest Time" by Billy Joel on the radio and it triggered a major bout of misty nostalgia. I hadn't heard that song, well, for the longest time. It immediately made me feel 4 years old again; it was probably one of the first songs I memorized and sang along to. My dad would listen to Billy Joel all the time, and I remember very clearly sitting shotgun in his green VW station wagon listening to this song while he drove me to school. I've always been weirded out by the brain and how it retains song lyrics forever, because I really felt like I hadn't heard that song since I was 5, but I knew every word. It was awesome. And as I said, misty. I was getting all teary and thinking of my dad and his condition and I'm slowly coming to grips with the fact that I'm losing him. FUN! I know I should be grateful for ever having him at all.
MMKAY!
I am staging an intervention on myself.
I just erased about 9 inches of some depressing fucking shit about my dad my mom her health status my aunt's assertion that since my dad is LALALA I CAN'T HEAR YOU that it's my job to make sure EVERYTHING GOES RIGHT at the hospital and AAAAAH!! CHRIST!
I just can't do it, the inch upon inch of sadness that I've already hashed out on the phone with several unsuspecting friends. It's boring, melodramatic, self-indulgent...GET A GRIP, GABBY! A FIRM ONE! This is NOT the time to go all PANSY!
I just...well, don't you have moments where it feels like you're in a canoe treading water at the top of a gigantic waterfall, using all your muscles to keep yourself on top, dreading the moment (which is inevitable, you're not superhuman) when your muscles give out?
Yeah.
But then, so much is right in my life right now. Micah? Wonderful, et al. School? Can I just say? I LOVE IT. Ok, so yeah, I'm only in the first week, the easy-like-Sunday-mornin' week. But I honestly believe I have found the perfect learning forum. Since I'm on the internet, oh, 9 hours a day (holy shit, dude, that's too much) I am completely addicted to going into the classroom discussion threads to see if if anyone has responded to my reading response questions. I got good and GIDDY this morning when I saw the professor had responded to my response with another question, so obviously impressed with me, and you know what? When I caught myself realizing I want to be teacher's pet? I embraced it. Teacher's pets get the motherfucking grades, ya know? Okay, I also realized the people in my class can't write worth a damn and that simply having good grammar and a somewhat expanded vocabularly can make you look like a genius if it's right above someone who writes like this:
. Regarding global warnings It think this could be useful the study of combustion chambers used in power plants could stop pollutants . The universial authenication is much needed to protect privacy from all the preditors . I think all the new technologies in place have their pro's and con's I think along the lines of health cloning is wrong and appose that ,I feel a monster would be created .
And for the trillionth time I'm reminded that though the environment wasn't the healthiest for self-esteem, self-expression, or anything else positive for the self, our high school did teach us how to write coherently. There's that.
And when I was reading "Introduction to Web Design" and saw all the HTML stuff? TOTALLY NOT SCARED. In fact, excited. They're teaching me something I desperately want to know, and I'm pretty sure that's never happened before, except maybe that Human Sexuality class I took at the community college.
What was the best/most useful class you ever took?
7.28.2006
7.27.2006
like this and like that and like this and uhhh
the gall bladder and liver are connected. didn't know that. or maybe i did but forgot. anyway, they cauterized the connection after taking out my mom's gall bladder and it sprung a leak. bile was leaking all over the place inside of her. now she can't do anything but lay there in the hospital alternately in tons of pain or nauseous from the painkiller. yesterday she was much more coherent and we had a lovely chat about the goings on in my life - a fabulous float trip, the theater, and starting school.
she'll be okay. it's just going to take some time to heal. part of me, the Negative Nancy, thinks she might not ever be 100% back to where she was. no doubt she'll prove me wrong. she's like that.
-----------
the second order of business is the lack of commenting on this here blog. i won't pretend it doesn't bother me. i like the comments. seeing that sad little "0 comments" does not make my day. you want to make my day, don't you?
so, at the end of every entry from now on, i'm going to ask you a question. if you still don't comment, may your undies be eternally slipping up your ass cheeks.
-----------
cleaning has never come easy to me. my parents never made me clean anything but my room when i was little. my dorm room was a fucking nightmare when i spent that year in Boston. now, i only seem to clean when the person i am living with can't take it anymore and they start to clean, which makes me feel guilty and i end up cleaning, too. and then? i can't seem to stop.
Micah is a great cleaner. he actually buys bleach. and uses it! it was rainy on Monday, so Micah came home early from work and started cleaning. and fuck, did he clean. the apartment looks magnificent. feeling inspired, i bought new refills for my swiffer wetjet - they have a wetjet liquid for hardwood floors now! brilliant! - and went to motherfucking town on the kitchen floor first, then the rest of the apartment. it looks and smells so nice now!
(also, i bought a computer chair. a nice, cushy, supportive black leather computer chair, because wooden chairs are NOT conducive to spending lots of time at my desk. my legs and ass were always falling asleep. that has nothing to do with cleaning, but i'm too excited about it not to share.)
now it seems Micah and I are in a cleaning competition. because now that the apartment is looking fantastic, we keep finding other places to clean.
unfortunately, we've had a bit of an ant problem in the kitchen. off the kitchen is a balcony, and the door is always open so the cats can chill out there, which they love. but since the door is always open, sometimes pests come in. thank god no squirrel or bird has been dumb enough to cross the threshold, but plenty of bugs have, and the cats kill and eat all of them. except ants. it's probably the equivalent of licking crumbs off the floor to my skilled, blood-thirsty, hunting cats. boring. waste of time. there are spastic june bugs and confused moths to track! and you want us to kill ants? pshaw!
alas, the hunting cats have left it up to me to get rid of the ants. for some reason, the ants make me very angry and anxious and Micah just doesn't feel the urgency i feel in getting rid of them. his answer is always "we just need to keep it cleaner," and he's totally right. but also, maybe we should look into some sort of poison? please?
so, after buying several packs of ant poison...huts, i guess, i went to the trusty internet and tried to find some ant deterrent to keep them from coming in at all. because i am impatient.
turns out ants do not like the following:
-baby powder
-chili pepper powder
-cloves
-a mysterious substance called Tarro
-ground cinnamon
-boric acid (because who doesn't have that in their home? so convenient.)
-citrus
also, and this is key - there are two types of ants: sugar eaters and grease eaters. there is no way to know which kind of ant you have, unless you happen upon ants floating gluttonously in a puddle of grease or lined up noshing on an apple. I had yet to see either. All I knew is that they really liked being near the stove, walking up it, around it, and across the counters. They also like the dry cat food. (which, DUH, has grease.)
so last night Micah decides the stove needs to be cleaned. what he unearthed was fucking disgusting, and the answer to the question about what kind of ants were infiltrating our kitchen, those dirty little bastards.
the grease. oh my dear, the grease.
it was coagulated in orange-ish drippings between the stove and cabinets. it was splattered behind the stove. Micah, bless him, knew how to disassemble the top of the stove so we could see just how much grease was attracting those ant bastards. it was totally fucking repulsive - caked, black, gummy, thick - and i couldn't believe it was lurking there under the burners for all this time. the stove probably hadn't been cleaned since it was purchased, and i'm guessing that was about 15 years ago. thank god we had oven cleaner, because nothing else would have worked.
and can i just tell you how wonderful it feels knowing we discovered all that nastiness and got rid of it? i'm starting to see the light. i even used an empty spray bottle and filled it with bleach and water and lovingly sprayed down the whole shebang after we were finished.
i really, really want to be a cleaner. i first have to get over an innate tendency to not care. if i'm being honest about it, dishes lying about don't bother me. sinkfuls, sure, that's nasty, but even leaving one dish out just paves the way for more. skipping a week of cleaning (or five) will make the cleaning so much harder, especially when you have newfangling items like swiffers (wet AND dry!) that if actually utilized on a regular basis, would keep the place from ever getting nasty.
i'm starting to clue in. be patient with me.
and if those ants come back after the huge, major, will it ever end grease-elimination party we threw last night, i WILL go looking for boric fucking acid.
----------------
your question, lovelies:
- how often do you clean? (and when i say clean i mean more than dishes - sweep/vacuum, dust, windex, etc.) what is your least favorite thing to clean? most favorite?
she'll be okay. it's just going to take some time to heal. part of me, the Negative Nancy, thinks she might not ever be 100% back to where she was. no doubt she'll prove me wrong. she's like that.
-----------
the second order of business is the lack of commenting on this here blog. i won't pretend it doesn't bother me. i like the comments. seeing that sad little "0 comments" does not make my day. you want to make my day, don't you?
so, at the end of every entry from now on, i'm going to ask you a question. if you still don't comment, may your undies be eternally slipping up your ass cheeks.
-----------
cleaning has never come easy to me. my parents never made me clean anything but my room when i was little. my dorm room was a fucking nightmare when i spent that year in Boston. now, i only seem to clean when the person i am living with can't take it anymore and they start to clean, which makes me feel guilty and i end up cleaning, too. and then? i can't seem to stop.
Micah is a great cleaner. he actually buys bleach. and uses it! it was rainy on Monday, so Micah came home early from work and started cleaning. and fuck, did he clean. the apartment looks magnificent. feeling inspired, i bought new refills for my swiffer wetjet - they have a wetjet liquid for hardwood floors now! brilliant! - and went to motherfucking town on the kitchen floor first, then the rest of the apartment. it looks and smells so nice now!
(also, i bought a computer chair. a nice, cushy, supportive black leather computer chair, because wooden chairs are NOT conducive to spending lots of time at my desk. my legs and ass were always falling asleep. that has nothing to do with cleaning, but i'm too excited about it not to share.)
now it seems Micah and I are in a cleaning competition. because now that the apartment is looking fantastic, we keep finding other places to clean.
unfortunately, we've had a bit of an ant problem in the kitchen. off the kitchen is a balcony, and the door is always open so the cats can chill out there, which they love. but since the door is always open, sometimes pests come in. thank god no squirrel or bird has been dumb enough to cross the threshold, but plenty of bugs have, and the cats kill and eat all of them. except ants. it's probably the equivalent of licking crumbs off the floor to my skilled, blood-thirsty, hunting cats. boring. waste of time. there are spastic june bugs and confused moths to track! and you want us to kill ants? pshaw!
alas, the hunting cats have left it up to me to get rid of the ants. for some reason, the ants make me very angry and anxious and Micah just doesn't feel the urgency i feel in getting rid of them. his answer is always "we just need to keep it cleaner," and he's totally right. but also, maybe we should look into some sort of poison? please?
so, after buying several packs of ant poison...huts, i guess, i went to the trusty internet and tried to find some ant deterrent to keep them from coming in at all. because i am impatient.
turns out ants do not like the following:
-baby powder
-chili pepper powder
-cloves
-a mysterious substance called Tarro
-ground cinnamon
-boric acid (because who doesn't have that in their home? so convenient.)
-citrus
also, and this is key - there are two types of ants: sugar eaters and grease eaters. there is no way to know which kind of ant you have, unless you happen upon ants floating gluttonously in a puddle of grease or lined up noshing on an apple. I had yet to see either. All I knew is that they really liked being near the stove, walking up it, around it, and across the counters. They also like the dry cat food. (which, DUH, has grease.)
so last night Micah decides the stove needs to be cleaned. what he unearthed was fucking disgusting, and the answer to the question about what kind of ants were infiltrating our kitchen, those dirty little bastards.
the grease. oh my dear, the grease.
it was coagulated in orange-ish drippings between the stove and cabinets. it was splattered behind the stove. Micah, bless him, knew how to disassemble the top of the stove so we could see just how much grease was attracting those ant bastards. it was totally fucking repulsive - caked, black, gummy, thick - and i couldn't believe it was lurking there under the burners for all this time. the stove probably hadn't been cleaned since it was purchased, and i'm guessing that was about 15 years ago. thank god we had oven cleaner, because nothing else would have worked.
and can i just tell you how wonderful it feels knowing we discovered all that nastiness and got rid of it? i'm starting to see the light. i even used an empty spray bottle and filled it with bleach and water and lovingly sprayed down the whole shebang after we were finished.
i really, really want to be a cleaner. i first have to get over an innate tendency to not care. if i'm being honest about it, dishes lying about don't bother me. sinkfuls, sure, that's nasty, but even leaving one dish out just paves the way for more. skipping a week of cleaning (or five) will make the cleaning so much harder, especially when you have newfangling items like swiffers (wet AND dry!) that if actually utilized on a regular basis, would keep the place from ever getting nasty.
i'm starting to clue in. be patient with me.
and if those ants come back after the huge, major, will it ever end grease-elimination party we threw last night, i WILL go looking for boric fucking acid.
----------------
your question, lovelies:
- how often do you clean? (and when i say clean i mean more than dishes - sweep/vacuum, dust, windex, etc.) what is your least favorite thing to clean? most favorite?
7.25.2006
set it down
ok, so maybe I overreacted a little. but when it comes to your mom, all bets are off. i'm allowed to freak the fuck out for a second.
my mom's going to be fine. why she didn't tell me the full story of the operation, i don't know. she survived breast cancer and her doctor was worried about the possibility of ovarian cancer developing, so when she found out she had major gall stones her doctor suggested they go ahead and take the ovaries out "while [they're] in there."
why didn't she tell me that? kind of major, right?
maybe not. i don't even know.
anyway, there was internal leakage after the surgery. she told my dad to call 911 after experiencing the worst pain of her life. i don't think my mom has ever been in an ambulance, and that's pretty good for being nearly 62.
(has anyone else been in an ambulance? do i assume because i have, everyone has? discuss.)
so yeah, it was really sad to see her in the hospital bed. when i arrived she still hadn't woken from the anesthesia yet. gradually she came to, looking extremely tired, sallow, and like smiling was a near impossibility. my dad told her "everyone's here" and she scanned the room silently until her eyes fell upon my niece, her sugar plum fairy, and she whispered "hi Bridgette."
nearly broke me in two, how much my mom loves that little girl. i imagine she used to look at me the same way, her miracle, the baby girl her body couldn't produce but who was there for her to love all the same. and now that i've learned Bridgette asks about me all the time, i'm totally smitten as well.
inhale! exhale! everything's going to be fine.
you don't, but you did
you don't ever want to see "Dad cell" on your cell phone, because he never calls you. you assume something bad has happened to your mom, because she is The Communicator. When there are plans or questions or issues to be dealt with, you see "Mom Cell."
you don't ever want to answer that call, but you have to. then you have to hear that your mom is back in the hospital after what was promised to be a low-key gall bladder removal.
you don't want to hear the hint of ohgodohgod in your dad's voice when he tells you he's in a waiting room while Mom gets all kinds of tests run, and she won't be back in her room for at least an hour. you don't want to imagine your dad sitting in a hospital waiting room. you don't want to know that he's freaking out as calmly as he can, because Mom most likely will need another surgery and will have to stay in the hospital a few days.
your mom has never stayed in the hospital a few days. you are fucking terrified to see her in a hospital bed, because she's already tiny and you know she'll look even tinier.
you don't want to go tell your boss you'd like the rest of the day off because you're afraid you'll burst into tears when you tell him why. and you know you must tell him why.
you don't want to even put one toenail over the line of doubt that everything will be okay. everything has to be okay. your daddy has alzheimer's and your mom is a hero. your mom keeps everything together. you have a hard enough time believing she'll actually die one day, she's just that lively. you selfishly assume you couldn't possibly handle what she handles, what she has in front of her, because of what's happening inside your dad's brain.
you'll stop and get peach flowers on the way because that's what she loves.
you'll call your brother and request his presence because you can't do this alone, damnit. you suggest he bring his daughter because she will light up the room in ways flowers can't. he says he's already gone to pick her up.
family, you realize, becomes more important with every passing year.
you don't ever want to answer that call, but you have to. then you have to hear that your mom is back in the hospital after what was promised to be a low-key gall bladder removal.
you don't want to hear the hint of ohgodohgod in your dad's voice when he tells you he's in a waiting room while Mom gets all kinds of tests run, and she won't be back in her room for at least an hour. you don't want to imagine your dad sitting in a hospital waiting room. you don't want to know that he's freaking out as calmly as he can, because Mom most likely will need another surgery and will have to stay in the hospital a few days.
your mom has never stayed in the hospital a few days. you are fucking terrified to see her in a hospital bed, because she's already tiny and you know she'll look even tinier.
you don't want to go tell your boss you'd like the rest of the day off because you're afraid you'll burst into tears when you tell him why. and you know you must tell him why.
you don't want to even put one toenail over the line of doubt that everything will be okay. everything has to be okay. your daddy has alzheimer's and your mom is a hero. your mom keeps everything together. you have a hard enough time believing she'll actually die one day, she's just that lively. you selfishly assume you couldn't possibly handle what she handles, what she has in front of her, because of what's happening inside your dad's brain.
you'll stop and get peach flowers on the way because that's what she loves.
you'll call your brother and request his presence because you can't do this alone, damnit. you suggest he bring his daughter because she will light up the room in ways flowers can't. he says he's already gone to pick her up.
family, you realize, becomes more important with every passing year.
7.21.2006
think of me what you will, i'm keeping them
One year ago this week, twin sandwiches were born. They were born peanut butter & jelly on Wonder Bread. I'm pretty sure it was crunchy peanut butter and grape jelly, as those have been my ideal PB&J choices since I was a tot.
My sandwiches, they are one year old.
Meet my sandwiches!
My sandwiches, they are one year old.
Meet my sandwiches!
(Sorry about the blurriness. I was having a lighting issue
and this was the best shot of them all.)
The circumstances of these twins staying with me for a year go like this: I was told to bring my own food for a float trip. I had just moved back to St. Louis with Noel, just a handful of days prior to the float trip, and things were askew to say the least. PB&J sounded so manageable. So I made a bunch of PB&Js (yes, sadly, the twins were once sextuplets) and put them in the cooler which floated behind us the whole trip down the river.
Somehow they made it back into my car when we were unpacking the cooler at the end of the trip. Maybe I thought I'd be hungry on the way home. More likely the cooler's mommy didn't want my shit in there anymore. Either way, they ended up in a stash of nasty things, such as wet swimming shorts and sandals. Things you dump in the trunk to deal with later.
I will admit I didn't deal with them later. Well, okay, I did. Six months later. I happened upon a bag in the downstairs closet, the closet behind the door I never open, and in the bag I found pair of moldy sandals - really, really moldy - and the swim shorts, which were stinky and not worth saving for fear of perma-stink. Then I noticed the sandwich bag and thought oh shit, this is going to be naaasty. Imagine my surprise and immediate inclination to keep them, these...well, these wonder sandwiches.
Let us all ponder the wonder of Wonder bread. HOW. Why they aren't shooting Wonder Bread into women's pores is beyond me. These babies look exactly like they did a year ago - not a fleck of mold, just your typical PB&J-got-smushed oily soak-through.
Or is it the Ziplock bag? I thought even Ziplocks were semi-permeable. You can smell through them, so why wouldn't a smite of air get through too? The only noticeable difference is that the twins are very, very hard. (On the edges. The middle? Smooshy! Amazing!)
Anyway, my sandwiches are one year old this week and I'm keeping them. You knew I would. How could I not? It's an experiment at this point. I'm going to make them a soft bed in a shoebox and get them out once a year and see what's sprung up. If there's still a blog, there will be updates.
the storm, it was a-brewin'
For all of you readers who don't live in St. Louis (all two of you, is what I mean) allow me to dissect the little storm that we had, and when I say little I really mean Holy Shit! That's a storm!
It was called the closest thing to a hurricane the Midwest could ever experience. Yesterday I mentioned something about 60 mph winds, and it was actually more like 80 mph. It left over 400,000 people without power. There are only 3 million people in St. Louis! 1/6 is an enormous percentage. Ameren, the power company, said in a "normal" bad storm 100 towers "go down." In this particular storm, it was more like 400. Each of the towers provides 15,000 homes with power. That, my darlings, is a major power outage, and it's not expected to be entirely fixed for another 4-5 days.
And thus, PANDELIRIUM! if I may be so bold as to quote Jeff Foxworthy.
Because 100 degree weather doesn't mesh so well with nearly 1/2 a million people without power. People with pets who get hot too. People with elderly relatives who can't use their AC, their fans, and most troublesome, their phones.
Last night while driving home from celebrating SH's birthday, I got a little spooked. There simply weren't any lights on, anywhere. South City was hit the hardest as far as outages and property damage. The sidewalks were filled with people with nowhere to go. Hot outside but hotter inside, so naturally they all came out in foul moods, hungry, stressed out, and did I mention HOT?
A group of us went out to dinner only to find the restaurant had a party of 30. The next restaurant, reached 20 minutes later because traffic signals were out, was arrived at by mistake. We thought we were in a different restaurant, a much, much cheaper restaurant. OOPS! So we left with a smidgen of shame after having sat for 10 minutes already. We got to the right restaurant and it was packed. The birthday girl suggested we all go get McDonald's and bring it back to the house so we could get to the game playing and cupcake-gobbling.
I shit not - it took 45 minutes to get back to their house. Every traffic light was out. Every single fucking drive-thru was longer than it would be even at 12-1pm when everyone is on lunch. No one could eat the food at home because at that point their food was either spoiled or they were too afraid to open the fridge because every last whiff of cold air in there should stay in there.
Did I mention that somehow Micah and I didn't lose power? It was a freak of nature thing. Our block was the only block within miles that had power. The entire strip of South Grand was black. I don't understand why businesses weren't getting looted right and left, but perhaps people just haven't reached their boiling points yet. Or maybe, just maybe, people can be decent.
Still didn't keep the streets from feeling weird. Like apocolypse weird. There's a ridiculous amount of damage to the trees, and some major buildings (including the airport) lost chunks, if not entire sections, of roof. Every single street is littered with branches and debris. Our beloved neighborhood park makes me want to cry it's so jacked up. And I've seen at least 10 of these within just a few miles of home:
It was called the closest thing to a hurricane the Midwest could ever experience. Yesterday I mentioned something about 60 mph winds, and it was actually more like 80 mph. It left over 400,000 people without power. There are only 3 million people in St. Louis! 1/6 is an enormous percentage. Ameren, the power company, said in a "normal" bad storm 100 towers "go down." In this particular storm, it was more like 400. Each of the towers provides 15,000 homes with power. That, my darlings, is a major power outage, and it's not expected to be entirely fixed for another 4-5 days.
And thus, PANDELIRIUM! if I may be so bold as to quote Jeff Foxworthy.
Because 100 degree weather doesn't mesh so well with nearly 1/2 a million people without power. People with pets who get hot too. People with elderly relatives who can't use their AC, their fans, and most troublesome, their phones.
Last night while driving home from celebrating SH's birthday, I got a little spooked. There simply weren't any lights on, anywhere. South City was hit the hardest as far as outages and property damage. The sidewalks were filled with people with nowhere to go. Hot outside but hotter inside, so naturally they all came out in foul moods, hungry, stressed out, and did I mention HOT?
A group of us went out to dinner only to find the restaurant had a party of 30. The next restaurant, reached 20 minutes later because traffic signals were out, was arrived at by mistake. We thought we were in a different restaurant, a much, much cheaper restaurant. OOPS! So we left with a smidgen of shame after having sat for 10 minutes already. We got to the right restaurant and it was packed. The birthday girl suggested we all go get McDonald's and bring it back to the house so we could get to the game playing and cupcake-gobbling.
I shit not - it took 45 minutes to get back to their house. Every traffic light was out. Every single fucking drive-thru was longer than it would be even at 12-1pm when everyone is on lunch. No one could eat the food at home because at that point their food was either spoiled or they were too afraid to open the fridge because every last whiff of cold air in there should stay in there.
Did I mention that somehow Micah and I didn't lose power? It was a freak of nature thing. Our block was the only block within miles that had power. The entire strip of South Grand was black. I don't understand why businesses weren't getting looted right and left, but perhaps people just haven't reached their boiling points yet. Or maybe, just maybe, people can be decent.
Still didn't keep the streets from feeling weird. Like apocolypse weird. There's a ridiculous amount of damage to the trees, and some major buildings (including the airport) lost chunks, if not entire sections, of roof. Every single street is littered with branches and debris. Our beloved neighborhood park makes me want to cry it's so jacked up. And I've seen at least 10 of these within just a few miles of home:
And every single one of them has a baby in a yellow buggy! Weird, right? They are National Guardsbabies. They start their training young. It takes many years to raise a good hero. I'm pretty sure that's what the National Guard does - look heroic. Because when they are called in, something really shitty happened in your town, and that's when you need a hero. (Also, millions of dollars to clean it up.)
Can we talk for a moment about the proper procedure when one reaches a four-way stop, which is just about every block in this town before the power outages? Apparently the people in this town need a little refresher. We already have little to no respect for anything telling us to STOP, so I think it's time for an intervention. Now how do I get all 3 million people to read this blog...?
Some DOs and DON'Ts For Four-way Stops:
(mostly don'ts, let's be real)
--> DON'T be messin' with your radio when you're up to bat. We don't have time for that. Pay attention.
--> DON'T zoom ahead after the person you're behind because you know you can get away with it if you cram far enough up that car's ass. This is not Noah's fucking Ark.
--> DO watch for who is already stopped when you are at the front of the line. In fact, if you want a shiny gold star sticker, keep tabs on who is where when you are three cars back. Progressive, I know.
--> DON'T wait for someone like me to get pissed. I will direct traffic, and I won't feel bad about it, because I've realized people actually move when I tell them too when I lay on my horn and flail my arms, because YOUR FUCKING TURN, ASSHOLE is the same in every language.
--> DO realize that the most efficient way to get through an intersection is if all the north and south facing people move at the same time, followed by all the east and west. Two simple moves! North and south! GO! East and west! GO!
--> DON'T sit there with your mouth hanging open, inching ever so much further, inchy inchy bo-binchy, until you're halfway through the intersection. If you're going to disregard the pattern, you'd better haul some fucking ass.
At least people actually started stopping at the blacked-out lights. During the first 12 hours or so post-storm, before the portable stop signs are put up, I really think most folks just cruise right through because their automatic pilots don't see a red light. No red light? Must be green, even if I can't see it for some reason right now!
I apologize if the lecture is unneeded. I'm stewing over the fact that it took me thirty minutes of my lunch break to get to my bank, the farther away bank because the first still doesn't have power. I sat in 1/2 mile back-ups at unlit lights only to arrive at the bank believing in the power of thinking rapid positive thoughts, rapid to the point of brain-curdle: pleaselettherebepowerpleaselettherebepower...pleaselet...pleaselet...FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK! Storm is NO LONGER INTERESTING!
I'm done. Class dismissed. Please don't tell your mommy how much I used the word fuck.
7.20.2006
fights, storms, and nightmares! tra-la!
Last night was the shittiest night I've had in a very long time. WOO!
First, the fight. Yep, Micah and I were not happy with each other for a solid 4 hours yesterday. It all started when I came home from work and immediately started cleaning the other window AC unit, the one I decided we must start using RIGHT NOW. Micah, on the other hand, was extremely tired. Yesterday was the hottest day of the year so far, and he worked outside in it from 6:30am until 3:00pm. He was totally spent and in a crabby mood, and rightfully so.
He started complaining about how expensive the rent was for such an inefficient place. I was still feeling bad about signing us up for another year, which only made me more gung-ho about getting that fucking unit in the window and creating an igloo for us in the living room. I wanted to show him it didn't have to be so hot. He did NOT want to help me. I only needed his help actually getting the unit in the window, which he did, but he was so negative. Every word that came out of his mouth was drenched with venom, not directed at me, I guess, but more the situation. I was not helping this cause, because I started getting really tired of the negativity and I kind of just started smiling and being nice, trying to diffuse his temper by pretending it didn't bother me, which totally backfired on me. He soon began to think I just didn't care. At all. You don't care that we pay too much. You don't care that I'm tired.
Oh, I care. I'm the one who negotiated the rent down $50 a month. I'm the one spending hours after getting home from work (the most precious time of the day) cleaning that hair-filled AC unit with a butter knife and tweezers, followed by applying plastic over the window with SCOTCH FUCKING TAPE so no hot breeze comes through. And the tired thing? What else am I supposed to do other than offer you food and say Baby, I'm so sorry you're tired. It must be really shitty working outside in that weather. I think about you all day and hope you're doing okay. WHICH IS WHAT I SAID. TWICE. I know this is going to sound trite because not everything should boil down to when you were born, but FUCKING CANCERS, man! The moodiness abounds!
Well. Somehow I get past the sticky negativity without blowing my top and manage to form the igloo, which involved: nailing a blanket over the door-less doorway; pulling the wonky retractable door from it's secret hideaway, closing the massive front window which included Micah struggling mightily with the ancient storm window; the ugly plastic curtain pulled from the depths of the junk closet and jerry-rigged back into place; and weather-proofing all around the AC unit with plastic and said SCOTCH FUCKING TAPE) and I'm feeling very satisfied. The AC unit (can we call him Fred?) is pumping hard, but he's got a lot of hard work ahead of him. Fred's got moldy breath, which scares me, but I figure I just flossed him and what he needs is to be left alone while the fresh breezes blow through him.
Suddenly, there are 60-degree winds bending our neighborhood in half. Our backyard is filling up with tree debris and the gutter flies completely off the building, looking like a ballerina pirouetting dizzily until she falls into the arms of the man-tree. The grass mats I hung for privacy are shredded. The fake plants I bought and then discarded because they looked uglier at home are nowhere to be seen, and I could care less. In the distance I can hear things falling, crashing into other things, and I run inside with glee when the tree in our backyard touches the building, something it can't normally do. Glee? Totally. I fucking love storms. And if a tree fell on my car? I wouldn't cry. I'd take pictures, and then go shopping for a new car.
The 60 mph winds made Micah realize we didn't need to use Fred anymore. We should open the windows again and let some of that chilly air in, Gabby! It sounded rational, sure, except I'd just essentially wasted those hours of getting Fred ready and battoning down the hatches. I knew he had a point - why pay for Fred to run when you can get Mother Nature's whore-ass for free? - but it still completely pissed me off when Micah started undoing my igloo, right down to struggling mightily once more with the storm windows, which he bitched about the whole way through. Isn't there someone who comes and does this? Isn't that why we RENT?
Yes baby, it is, but it's a matter of not wanting to wait two days for some half-wit maintenance guy to show up when you can obviously do it faster yourself.
He knew right away that I was upset. He said I'm sorry I took down everything you put up. To which I replied with the most passive-aggressive answer on the face of the earth: I'm sorry you took it down, too.
So then he put it all back up. And I waltzed in and said what are you doing?! The wind is really cold! at which point we ceased talking completely. We were both past being civil and wisely just shut the fuck up.
Then, while Micah was in the shower, I hear someone yelling his name outside. It's Micah's brother, who has never dropped by unannounced before, but he was in the neighborhood. He was like some sort of angel, albeit a beer-bellied one a few teeth short of a full grill. But then we were able to sit and not talk to each other and be okay with it, 'cause C was distracting us. Ten minutes into his visit Micah waves a little at me to get my attention and he tilts his head at me with a tiny smile as if to say can we be done now? I miss you. And I smile back because I'm done too.
EXCEPT NOT. Because as soon as C leaves, Micah will barely talk to me again. But now I have ceased caring. I'm so TIRED he says. THEN GO TO BED ALREADY! I snap. Because if he tells me he's tired one more time...
We go to bed together, amazingly. It's frigid in the bedroom and I start to feel nicer. I reach out to Micah, he'll barely look at me. Why is it so hard for him to break his moodiness? It's like smiling at me would be admitting defeat in whatever little fucked up battle he's having in his head. I curl my arm around his and cuddle for a moment, which is as intimate as I was willing to be, and then shortly after turned over and fell asleep, conflict not quite resolved but scabbed over, at least. I realized that throughout the entire night of bickering I didn't once think that maybe he wasn't the person I thought he was, that maybe I misjudged him and that I didn't like what was finally coming out, which has always been a theme when I'm involved in a fight with a boyfriend. Not once did I think he wasn't worth it. Because I know the decency and glee that man contains, and I know the bitch I entertain. Everyone has a beast.
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Re: the nightmare I had last night
Dear Ex-boyfriend #1:
It's been seven years since you came along and ruined my life, and six years since you came to my apartment and made me hate you more than I have ever hated anyone. I saw you on the highway once, after the fact. You noticed my car and drove next to me long enough for me to notice someone was intentionally keeping pace with me. When I finally looked over to see who it was, you waved at me and smiled. Like nothing had ever happened. Like the restraining order did not exist. If I'd had my wits about me I would have at least turned my middle finger up at you, but at that moment I could barely breath, you scared my lungs into stillness, and all I could do was turn my head back like you didn't exist and keep driving, scrambling to recall where the closest police station was, prepared to drive right to it. Thankfully, you got off the highway.
I dream about you. Rather, you are the star of my nightmares. I didn't dream about you at all for a long time, and then suddenly you were there on a semi-regular basis, probably once a month. Then the dreams were gone. The last dream I remember having about you (before last night, that is) things were remarkably peaceful. I wasn't running from you. I was walking next to you and we were talking. I thought this was a huge step for me, an indication that I was at peace with what you did to me and no longer felt afraid. See, I never had any therapy after what you did to me, and I should have. I never worked it out. I thought I was doing so well after going through such a thing, the most terrifying thing in my life. After last night, I'm not so sure.
I dreamt I was in my car in a small parking lot. I saw you. You were walking towards my car and I backed up for some reason, I guess it was the only way for me to get out of the lot. I was about to slam my foot on the gas and get the hell away from you but you pulled out a gun and aimed it at me. We were right in front of a hotel and you demanded I go inside with you. I thought you were going to rape me, possibly kill me, because you never put the gun away.
We sat on the bed and you told me that you still love me. You've loved me all these years and you don't know how to get over me. You said you really wanted to have sex with me. You never let go of the gun. I knew I had to get away from you, but I was afraid of you. So I did what I did after you did what you did six years ago - I told you I loved you and no, I wasn't mad at you, and everything would be okay. Anything to make you calm down. Anything to get away.
I don't exactly recall now, some six hours after waking from that nightmare, but I think you might have gone into the bathroom and I snuck out. I remember walking past two hotel maids, thinking what if they go tell him I left? what if he follows me?!
I got away. I drove to my coffeehouse, which didn't look anything like my coffeehouse, and I started looking for Micah. He's my new boyfriend, the man I want to marry, the antithesis of you; he's the greatest thing that has happened to me, whereas you were the absolute worst. I couldn't find Micah. You made me lose track of him. I wandered along strange-looking streets, peering into my friends' apartments, seeing them sitting inside, and not wanting to disturb them in my quest to find you. I knew they didn't know where Micah was.
Then I woke up. I have never woken up and cried after a nightmare, but I did last night. My sobbing woke Micah and I told him what happened and he wrapped his arm tightly around me and told me it was okay. Just a nightmare. I was safe with him and nothing would happen to me.
I don't know what I have to do to get rid of you. I have always been a person who isn't terribly ashamed of my mistakes because I always learned a valuable lesson. Even if it has to be the hard way, I still learn. But you? I am entirely ashamed of you. I am ashamed of who I became when I was with you; someone addicted, greedy, selfish, repulsive and deceitful. You were so kind at first, gentle with your words and touches. I saw you morph into a monster and had the sense to get away. What you did to me was both the worst and best thing that could've happened, because the drugs were no longer a possibility when you stopped being one.
I'd like to say I'm done with you, I won't think of you, but I know that's not realistic. I know I probably dreamt of you last night because of the rough evening I'd had. I'd spent the evening arguing, a terrible storm blew through, and I went to sleep with unresolved anger, which is something I am very much against. I broke my own rule about going to bed angry. You pop up when shit is going wrong, because you are (and always will be) the representation of Shit Going Wrong, and you must be deeply entrenched in my subconcious at this point.
Basically? Fuck you. Fuck you, you fucking asshole. You are fucking pathetic. Getting away from you was hard, so hard, but hating you is the easiest thing I've ever done. And I'll do it forever. If you ever see me again you can be sure I won't turn my head and keep driving. All I can do is hope karma does its dirty job. I should've known not to mess with you when I found out you'd been shot in the face, because people don't get shot at 3:00am on their own doorstep because they didn't do anything. I'm sorry he missed. Sorry your doctors were so good.
Worst,
G
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On a far less melodramatic note, Happy Birthday, Shelly! You are such a great friend and even if you'd rather not, you always listen and give honest advice. You'll always be my favorite Spades partner!
(Shouldn't go to bed angry, shouldn't leave a blog angry.)
First, the fight. Yep, Micah and I were not happy with each other for a solid 4 hours yesterday. It all started when I came home from work and immediately started cleaning the other window AC unit, the one I decided we must start using RIGHT NOW. Micah, on the other hand, was extremely tired. Yesterday was the hottest day of the year so far, and he worked outside in it from 6:30am until 3:00pm. He was totally spent and in a crabby mood, and rightfully so.
He started complaining about how expensive the rent was for such an inefficient place. I was still feeling bad about signing us up for another year, which only made me more gung-ho about getting that fucking unit in the window and creating an igloo for us in the living room. I wanted to show him it didn't have to be so hot. He did NOT want to help me. I only needed his help actually getting the unit in the window, which he did, but he was so negative. Every word that came out of his mouth was drenched with venom, not directed at me, I guess, but more the situation. I was not helping this cause, because I started getting really tired of the negativity and I kind of just started smiling and being nice, trying to diffuse his temper by pretending it didn't bother me, which totally backfired on me. He soon began to think I just didn't care. At all. You don't care that we pay too much. You don't care that I'm tired.
Oh, I care. I'm the one who negotiated the rent down $50 a month. I'm the one spending hours after getting home from work (the most precious time of the day) cleaning that hair-filled AC unit with a butter knife and tweezers, followed by applying plastic over the window with SCOTCH FUCKING TAPE so no hot breeze comes through. And the tired thing? What else am I supposed to do other than offer you food and say Baby, I'm so sorry you're tired. It must be really shitty working outside in that weather. I think about you all day and hope you're doing okay. WHICH IS WHAT I SAID. TWICE. I know this is going to sound trite because not everything should boil down to when you were born, but FUCKING CANCERS, man! The moodiness abounds!
Well. Somehow I get past the sticky negativity without blowing my top and manage to form the igloo, which involved: nailing a blanket over the door-less doorway; pulling the wonky retractable door from it's secret hideaway, closing the massive front window which included Micah struggling mightily with the ancient storm window; the ugly plastic curtain pulled from the depths of the junk closet and jerry-rigged back into place; and weather-proofing all around the AC unit with plastic and said SCOTCH FUCKING TAPE) and I'm feeling very satisfied. The AC unit (can we call him Fred?) is pumping hard, but he's got a lot of hard work ahead of him. Fred's got moldy breath, which scares me, but I figure I just flossed him and what he needs is to be left alone while the fresh breezes blow through him.
Suddenly, there are 60-degree winds bending our neighborhood in half. Our backyard is filling up with tree debris and the gutter flies completely off the building, looking like a ballerina pirouetting dizzily until she falls into the arms of the man-tree. The grass mats I hung for privacy are shredded. The fake plants I bought and then discarded because they looked uglier at home are nowhere to be seen, and I could care less. In the distance I can hear things falling, crashing into other things, and I run inside with glee when the tree in our backyard touches the building, something it can't normally do. Glee? Totally. I fucking love storms. And if a tree fell on my car? I wouldn't cry. I'd take pictures, and then go shopping for a new car.
The 60 mph winds made Micah realize we didn't need to use Fred anymore. We should open the windows again and let some of that chilly air in, Gabby! It sounded rational, sure, except I'd just essentially wasted those hours of getting Fred ready and battoning down the hatches. I knew he had a point - why pay for Fred to run when you can get Mother Nature's whore-ass for free? - but it still completely pissed me off when Micah started undoing my igloo, right down to struggling mightily once more with the storm windows, which he bitched about the whole way through. Isn't there someone who comes and does this? Isn't that why we RENT?
Yes baby, it is, but it's a matter of not wanting to wait two days for some half-wit maintenance guy to show up when you can obviously do it faster yourself.
He knew right away that I was upset. He said I'm sorry I took down everything you put up. To which I replied with the most passive-aggressive answer on the face of the earth: I'm sorry you took it down, too.
So then he put it all back up. And I waltzed in and said what are you doing?! The wind is really cold! at which point we ceased talking completely. We were both past being civil and wisely just shut the fuck up.
Then, while Micah was in the shower, I hear someone yelling his name outside. It's Micah's brother, who has never dropped by unannounced before, but he was in the neighborhood. He was like some sort of angel, albeit a beer-bellied one a few teeth short of a full grill. But then we were able to sit and not talk to each other and be okay with it, 'cause C was distracting us. Ten minutes into his visit Micah waves a little at me to get my attention and he tilts his head at me with a tiny smile as if to say can we be done now? I miss you. And I smile back because I'm done too.
EXCEPT NOT. Because as soon as C leaves, Micah will barely talk to me again. But now I have ceased caring. I'm so TIRED he says. THEN GO TO BED ALREADY! I snap. Because if he tells me he's tired one more time...
We go to bed together, amazingly. It's frigid in the bedroom and I start to feel nicer. I reach out to Micah, he'll barely look at me. Why is it so hard for him to break his moodiness? It's like smiling at me would be admitting defeat in whatever little fucked up battle he's having in his head. I curl my arm around his and cuddle for a moment, which is as intimate as I was willing to be, and then shortly after turned over and fell asleep, conflict not quite resolved but scabbed over, at least. I realized that throughout the entire night of bickering I didn't once think that maybe he wasn't the person I thought he was, that maybe I misjudged him and that I didn't like what was finally coming out, which has always been a theme when I'm involved in a fight with a boyfriend. Not once did I think he wasn't worth it. Because I know the decency and glee that man contains, and I know the bitch I entertain. Everyone has a beast.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Re: the nightmare I had last night
Dear Ex-boyfriend #1:
It's been seven years since you came along and ruined my life, and six years since you came to my apartment and made me hate you more than I have ever hated anyone. I saw you on the highway once, after the fact. You noticed my car and drove next to me long enough for me to notice someone was intentionally keeping pace with me. When I finally looked over to see who it was, you waved at me and smiled. Like nothing had ever happened. Like the restraining order did not exist. If I'd had my wits about me I would have at least turned my middle finger up at you, but at that moment I could barely breath, you scared my lungs into stillness, and all I could do was turn my head back like you didn't exist and keep driving, scrambling to recall where the closest police station was, prepared to drive right to it. Thankfully, you got off the highway.
I dream about you. Rather, you are the star of my nightmares. I didn't dream about you at all for a long time, and then suddenly you were there on a semi-regular basis, probably once a month. Then the dreams were gone. The last dream I remember having about you (before last night, that is) things were remarkably peaceful. I wasn't running from you. I was walking next to you and we were talking. I thought this was a huge step for me, an indication that I was at peace with what you did to me and no longer felt afraid. See, I never had any therapy after what you did to me, and I should have. I never worked it out. I thought I was doing so well after going through such a thing, the most terrifying thing in my life. After last night, I'm not so sure.
I dreamt I was in my car in a small parking lot. I saw you. You were walking towards my car and I backed up for some reason, I guess it was the only way for me to get out of the lot. I was about to slam my foot on the gas and get the hell away from you but you pulled out a gun and aimed it at me. We were right in front of a hotel and you demanded I go inside with you. I thought you were going to rape me, possibly kill me, because you never put the gun away.
We sat on the bed and you told me that you still love me. You've loved me all these years and you don't know how to get over me. You said you really wanted to have sex with me. You never let go of the gun. I knew I had to get away from you, but I was afraid of you. So I did what I did after you did what you did six years ago - I told you I loved you and no, I wasn't mad at you, and everything would be okay. Anything to make you calm down. Anything to get away.
I don't exactly recall now, some six hours after waking from that nightmare, but I think you might have gone into the bathroom and I snuck out. I remember walking past two hotel maids, thinking what if they go tell him I left? what if he follows me?!
I got away. I drove to my coffeehouse, which didn't look anything like my coffeehouse, and I started looking for Micah. He's my new boyfriend, the man I want to marry, the antithesis of you; he's the greatest thing that has happened to me, whereas you were the absolute worst. I couldn't find Micah. You made me lose track of him. I wandered along strange-looking streets, peering into my friends' apartments, seeing them sitting inside, and not wanting to disturb them in my quest to find you. I knew they didn't know where Micah was.
Then I woke up. I have never woken up and cried after a nightmare, but I did last night. My sobbing woke Micah and I told him what happened and he wrapped his arm tightly around me and told me it was okay. Just a nightmare. I was safe with him and nothing would happen to me.
I don't know what I have to do to get rid of you. I have always been a person who isn't terribly ashamed of my mistakes because I always learned a valuable lesson. Even if it has to be the hard way, I still learn. But you? I am entirely ashamed of you. I am ashamed of who I became when I was with you; someone addicted, greedy, selfish, repulsive and deceitful. You were so kind at first, gentle with your words and touches. I saw you morph into a monster and had the sense to get away. What you did to me was both the worst and best thing that could've happened, because the drugs were no longer a possibility when you stopped being one.
I'd like to say I'm done with you, I won't think of you, but I know that's not realistic. I know I probably dreamt of you last night because of the rough evening I'd had. I'd spent the evening arguing, a terrible storm blew through, and I went to sleep with unresolved anger, which is something I am very much against. I broke my own rule about going to bed angry. You pop up when shit is going wrong, because you are (and always will be) the representation of Shit Going Wrong, and you must be deeply entrenched in my subconcious at this point.
Basically? Fuck you. Fuck you, you fucking asshole. You are fucking pathetic. Getting away from you was hard, so hard, but hating you is the easiest thing I've ever done. And I'll do it forever. If you ever see me again you can be sure I won't turn my head and keep driving. All I can do is hope karma does its dirty job. I should've known not to mess with you when I found out you'd been shot in the face, because people don't get shot at 3:00am on their own doorstep because they didn't do anything. I'm sorry he missed. Sorry your doctors were so good.
Worst,
G
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On a far less melodramatic note, Happy Birthday, Shelly! You are such a great friend and even if you'd rather not, you always listen and give honest advice. You'll always be my favorite Spades partner!
(Shouldn't go to bed angry, shouldn't leave a blog angry.)
7.16.2006
back in Motherfuckinghotville
OH MY GOD.
Today is exactly why I hate summer. It is 99 degrees with a heat index of 105. How could anyone possibly enjoy summer? There are exactly three reasons to like summer, whereas I can think of at least 10 for fall, winter, and spring each.
1) Popsicles
2) swimming
3) the Summer Olympics - and that only happens every four fucking summers!
I can't think of anything except how I want to go swimming. I pretty much think that every second of every moment I'm at home or forced to walk more than ten steps outside. I've suggested once or twice to Micah that we should move into the bedroom completely. Cut the cats a door so they can get in and out, put a mini-fridge on his Home Depot credit card and set that bad boy up in the closet, and possibly even learn some tasty crockpot recipes. WE COULD DO IT!
Or, you know, we could have moved instead of signing another lease. I knew this was coming. I know it's way too expensive to run two AC units. I know we have horribly inefficient windows and trying to cool down the connected and giant living and dining rooms would have laughable results. But dang it, I LOVE this apartment. Also, I've moved 10 times in 9 years and I would like a break. However. I will never make this mistake again. Gigantic dark wood columns and beams and lovely stained glass windows are not a good trade for central air. My big bad.
My general malaise is probably related to coming home from the conference. It ended up being mostly a vacation. As I said previously, I love hotels and if I'm in one, it means I'm not home. Not home means vacation, even if it involves getting up at 6:30 to shower and be on time for the meetings I had to attend. At the end of each day I still got to come back to the hotel (which I called "home" several times, as in "let's just go home and order room service") and hang out with Micah in a room with a thermostat. Oh, and the swimming possibilities were endless.
The best part was the weather. We giggled as we listened to the meteorologists on the local news talk about taking precautions because it was so hot - 86! - and go on and on about the terrible humidity. Ignorance is bliss, obviously.
Sandusky, OH, is on Lake Erie. There's always a breeze. We also witnessed some fantastic storms. We sat on our balcony wrapped in towels after returning from swimming, smoking cigarettes and marveling at how we could barely see the other side of the parking lot it was raining so hard. Beautiful.
Alas, we are home, and all the sweatier for it. The bedroom is shut up nice and tight with the AC pumping in preparation for the meltdown. There is always a meltdown.
I'm going to go put some fresh batteries in my camera and see what I came away with. Unfortunately I didn't take as many pictures as I wanted, most likely a direct effect of being so goddamn lazy and cold. I got to be cold in July! Because thermostats go below 60 degrees!
I wanna go back.
Today is exactly why I hate summer. It is 99 degrees with a heat index of 105. How could anyone possibly enjoy summer? There are exactly three reasons to like summer, whereas I can think of at least 10 for fall, winter, and spring each.
1) Popsicles
2) swimming
3) the Summer Olympics - and that only happens every four fucking summers!
I can't think of anything except how I want to go swimming. I pretty much think that every second of every moment I'm at home or forced to walk more than ten steps outside. I've suggested once or twice to Micah that we should move into the bedroom completely. Cut the cats a door so they can get in and out, put a mini-fridge on his Home Depot credit card and set that bad boy up in the closet, and possibly even learn some tasty crockpot recipes. WE COULD DO IT!
Or, you know, we could have moved instead of signing another lease. I knew this was coming. I know it's way too expensive to run two AC units. I know we have horribly inefficient windows and trying to cool down the connected and giant living and dining rooms would have laughable results. But dang it, I LOVE this apartment. Also, I've moved 10 times in 9 years and I would like a break. However. I will never make this mistake again. Gigantic dark wood columns and beams and lovely stained glass windows are not a good trade for central air. My big bad.
My general malaise is probably related to coming home from the conference. It ended up being mostly a vacation. As I said previously, I love hotels and if I'm in one, it means I'm not home. Not home means vacation, even if it involves getting up at 6:30 to shower and be on time for the meetings I had to attend. At the end of each day I still got to come back to the hotel (which I called "home" several times, as in "let's just go home and order room service") and hang out with Micah in a room with a thermostat. Oh, and the swimming possibilities were endless.
The best part was the weather. We giggled as we listened to the meteorologists on the local news talk about taking precautions because it was so hot - 86! - and go on and on about the terrible humidity. Ignorance is bliss, obviously.
Sandusky, OH, is on Lake Erie. There's always a breeze. We also witnessed some fantastic storms. We sat on our balcony wrapped in towels after returning from swimming, smoking cigarettes and marveling at how we could barely see the other side of the parking lot it was raining so hard. Beautiful.
Alas, we are home, and all the sweatier for it. The bedroom is shut up nice and tight with the AC pumping in preparation for the meltdown. There is always a meltdown.
I'm going to go put some fresh batteries in my camera and see what I came away with. Unfortunately I didn't take as many pictures as I wanted, most likely a direct effect of being so goddamn lazy and cold. I got to be cold in July! Because thermostats go below 60 degrees!
I wanna go back.
7.13.2006
greetings from OH!
mad at myself for not thinking of a better title but too excited to start blogging to stop and go back. so, we're at the fucking conference! i must say, it's very distracting to have a blog. because every time (and i mean EVERY TIME) something remotely funny or random happens i think "i'm totally going to blog about this later!" and you know what? i can never fucking remember those things later when i actually sit down to commence with the blogging. it's bad. really bad.
'cept i definitely remember that we watched a gull nibble at a puddle of barf in our hotel parking lot.
and i managed to stay upright yesterday when 1000 gallons of water crashed down on my head in the waterpark. there was a pile of 7 year olds at my feet though. their swizzle-stick legs just couldn't handle it. i bet they can't wait until they've got tree trunks like mine! then they shan't be having a problem!
so remember when i said i needed a guest blogger because i wouldn't have internet access until sunday?
1) screw ya'll.
2) i totally fucking fucked up and left my laptop at home. i was supposed to bring it because the Admin Assts have training on some new programs. COMPUTER programs. fedex is totally invited to my birthday party! then? something really cool happened! i took my laptop to the "PC Clinic" at the conference and they unclicked some thing and suddenly i have wireless internet access, which resulted in the extreme euphoria experience i am experiencing right now. because dude? i've never EVA used the internet on a laptop in a hotel room, and that is like THE COOLEST thing i can think of. because, dude? there is nothing cooler than a hotel. and i am BLOGGING in a HOTEL ROOM without WIRES. mega-dork is definitely my color.
before you go thinking this trip is just guns n' roses, let me fill you in on something that is ruining this experience. we cannot smoke in the hotel room. we can barely cuss in the hotel room, it is so fucking sterile and family-oriented. it's hard to say fuck in this kind of environment. even harder to actually fuck.
oh, who am i kidding? it's always better to fuck where maybe you shouldn't!
more later, lasses. i have to GO OUTSIDE for a cigarette! definitely NOT conducive to this whole blogging wirelessly in a hotel while your lovely boyfriend lounges nearby thing. i think that whole last sentence was supposed to involve hyphens but sometimes i just don't have the patience. DUH.
i missed you, blog. i missed you, computer. like, scary missed you. like, maybe you should move to another town missed you. goodnight, then! maybe momma's gonna have a little photo journal for you. if you eat your veggies.
'cept i definitely remember that we watched a gull nibble at a puddle of barf in our hotel parking lot.
and i managed to stay upright yesterday when 1000 gallons of water crashed down on my head in the waterpark. there was a pile of 7 year olds at my feet though. their swizzle-stick legs just couldn't handle it. i bet they can't wait until they've got tree trunks like mine! then they shan't be having a problem!
so remember when i said i needed a guest blogger because i wouldn't have internet access until sunday?
1) screw ya'll.
2) i totally fucking fucked up and left my laptop at home. i was supposed to bring it because the Admin Assts have training on some new programs. COMPUTER programs. fedex is totally invited to my birthday party! then? something really cool happened! i took my laptop to the "PC Clinic" at the conference and they unclicked some thing and suddenly i have wireless internet access, which resulted in the extreme euphoria experience i am experiencing right now. because dude? i've never EVA used the internet on a laptop in a hotel room, and that is like THE COOLEST thing i can think of. because, dude? there is nothing cooler than a hotel. and i am BLOGGING in a HOTEL ROOM without WIRES. mega-dork is definitely my color.
before you go thinking this trip is just guns n' roses, let me fill you in on something that is ruining this experience. we cannot smoke in the hotel room. we can barely cuss in the hotel room, it is so fucking sterile and family-oriented. it's hard to say fuck in this kind of environment. even harder to actually fuck.
oh, who am i kidding? it's always better to fuck where maybe you shouldn't!
more later, lasses. i have to GO OUTSIDE for a cigarette! definitely NOT conducive to this whole blogging wirelessly in a hotel while your lovely boyfriend lounges nearby thing. i think that whole last sentence was supposed to involve hyphens but sometimes i just don't have the patience. DUH.
i missed you, blog. i missed you, computer. like, scary missed you. like, maybe you should move to another town missed you. goodnight, then! maybe momma's gonna have a little photo journal for you. if you eat your veggies.
7.10.2006
please say yes!
I'm going to a conference this week! I have probably already told everyone about it! There will be an indoor waterpark! Hurrah! I will be sitting in horrifically boring meetings all day! Not-hurrah!
Does anyone feel like Guest-blogging this week? I won't have internet access from Tuesday night until Sunday and I think it would be really cool if one of my totally awesome friends volunteered to update this blog once. Twice? Three times? A lady (would)!
Oh come on, wouldn't it be fun? You can get on here and tell embarassing stories about me! You can tell everyone about that funny thing your cat did! You can...you can...oh, fuck. I'm not going to beg.
(Maybe just a leetle. PLEEEEEEASE?)
Does anyone feel like Guest-blogging this week? I won't have internet access from Tuesday night until Sunday and I think it would be really cool if one of my totally awesome friends volunteered to update this blog once. Twice? Three times? A lady (would)!
Oh come on, wouldn't it be fun? You can get on here and tell embarassing stories about me! You can tell everyone about that funny thing your cat did! You can...you can...oh, fuck. I'm not going to beg.
(Maybe just a leetle. PLEEEEEEASE?)
7.07.2006
go. now. giggle.
Anyone been to stuffonmycat.com? For some reason, I find this to be an act of genius.
Why won't MY kitties sleep in the sink? Fucking adorable!
Why won't MY kitties sleep in the sink? Fucking adorable!
7.06.2006
meet the fam
This past weekend Micah met most of my extended family. (I'm not going to call him M anymore.) I was less nervous about this than I was for the initial meeting, which thankfully (and not accidentally) happened on my birthday so everyone had to be nice to me and since I was the guest of honor, nobody would pepper Micah with too many questions or size-him-up stares.
On Saturday, he wasn't so lucky. It had great potential to become an interrogation session. It was the annual 4th of July to-do at my parents' place, and there was no way I could protect him 100% of the time. Not that I needed to. It turns out Micah is not intimidated by anyone - not because he's cocky but because he genuinely likes people and has a lot of respect for his elders - and while I wasn't nervous, exactly, I was worried that he might feel overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people. I didn't give him enough credit. He handled it like a pro. He remembered most of my cousins' names even though a handful of them assumed I'd said "Michael" when I made introductions. I think they all got it eventually.
I know one of them did for sure - my cousin Kent, age 60-something - because after the fireworks were over and Micah and I were killing time noshing in the kitchen, waiting for the line of cars leaving Innsbrook to die down, Kent came up and put a hand on each of our shoulders and proceeded to ask Micah if he'd ever seen such-and-such movie with a very Hebrew-sounding title. I thought Kent's just drunk and making conversation, but it soon became clear that Kent thought Micah was Jewish. See, the Book of Micah is a section of the Old Testament, which is Jew territory. Kent's gorgeous Hawaiian/African/Filipino wife is Jewish, and I suppose they'd been discussing the possibility of another Jew in the family.
After finding out that Micah is indeed agnostic, I thought drunk Kent might go away. Nope. He wasn't trashed, per se, but the kind of drunk where time just slips away and it is perfectly acceptable to trap your cousin and her boyfriend in a tiny kitchen and talk nonstop. He stood there with a hand on each of our shoulders for no less than twenty minutes. I got to my breaking point. I'm just not that close with my extended family. I'm good for a "hello" hug, some safe chit-chat about how my job is going, and that's about it. So I excused myself "for a moment" and left Micah sitting there. By himself. Because I'm a big, inconsiderate bitch. Did it phase my darling boyfriend? Not in the least. In fact, he loved it. Later I tried to apologize and Micah would hear none of it.
Earlier in the evening Micah and I were sitting at a table in the yard with two of my cousins from Texas. Suddenly my cousin Leonetta (Kent's wife) calls out to me. "Gabby! Come here!" (She's demanding like that.) So I got up and sat next to her about 20 feet from where Micah was sitting. She wanted the scoop. I'd already knocked back several vodka & Sprites, so I was in the mood to talk. Especially with Leonetta, who is all spit-fire and little shame, a woman whose eldest daughter (my age) regularly calls her with boy troubles. I started talking and I didn't take a breath, so happy that someone in the family wanted to know the dirty details of how I came to know Micah. And the details, they are a bit dirty, partially because I attended Micah's wedding some 5 years prior. But Leonetta? Not phased. (Not Catholic.)
During this conversation, Leonetta said what others have delicately phrased to me in the past - that Dave, my ex, wasn't right for me. I simply LOVE how no one will express those thoughts to you when you're actually in the middle of going down the wrong path with the wrong person. I guess everyone figures that it's not their place to say something, which I understand because I have been there myself, but the unabashed confidence and know-it-all attitude they project after the fact is bothersome. I mean, what would have happened if I'd actually married Dave? Would my friends and family, who all claim they knew Dave wasn't right for me, say something to me about it? Or would they have let me walk down the aisle with no more than a raised eyebrow that I wouldn't even notice because they were staring at my back?
Now, I totally agree (obviously) that Dave wasn't right for me. I appreciate everyone's concern (and their Micah is so cute! sentiments). I too adore the fact that Micah has a job that he loves. He has a future. He can save money. He looks me in the eye and tells me everything I have ever wanted to hear. Micah is everything Dave wasn't and showed little potential to be. I guess I just wasn't aware that everyone thought he was wrong for me. Because seriously? I would've liked to hear some dissension among the ranks. Sometimes people watching a relationship have more perspective than the ones actually in the relationship.
The point, though round-about, is that they all approve of Micah and aren't afraid to tell me. If I'd been paying attention 3 years ago with Dave, I'd have noticed the lack of such approval. When people don't like it, they won't say anything. When they love it, you'll know.
While we were driving home that night, I felt a special affection for my family that I don't usually feel, and it was inspired by something wonderful that Micah said to me (seriously, he says wonderful things to me all the time):
On Saturday, he wasn't so lucky. It had great potential to become an interrogation session. It was the annual 4th of July to-do at my parents' place, and there was no way I could protect him 100% of the time. Not that I needed to. It turns out Micah is not intimidated by anyone - not because he's cocky but because he genuinely likes people and has a lot of respect for his elders - and while I wasn't nervous, exactly, I was worried that he might feel overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people. I didn't give him enough credit. He handled it like a pro. He remembered most of my cousins' names even though a handful of them assumed I'd said "Michael" when I made introductions. I think they all got it eventually.
I know one of them did for sure - my cousin Kent, age 60-something - because after the fireworks were over and Micah and I were killing time noshing in the kitchen, waiting for the line of cars leaving Innsbrook to die down, Kent came up and put a hand on each of our shoulders and proceeded to ask Micah if he'd ever seen such-and-such movie with a very Hebrew-sounding title. I thought Kent's just drunk and making conversation, but it soon became clear that Kent thought Micah was Jewish. See, the Book of Micah is a section of the Old Testament, which is Jew territory. Kent's gorgeous Hawaiian/African/Filipino wife is Jewish, and I suppose they'd been discussing the possibility of another Jew in the family.
After finding out that Micah is indeed agnostic, I thought drunk Kent might go away. Nope. He wasn't trashed, per se, but the kind of drunk where time just slips away and it is perfectly acceptable to trap your cousin and her boyfriend in a tiny kitchen and talk nonstop. He stood there with a hand on each of our shoulders for no less than twenty minutes. I got to my breaking point. I'm just not that close with my extended family. I'm good for a "hello" hug, some safe chit-chat about how my job is going, and that's about it. So I excused myself "for a moment" and left Micah sitting there. By himself. Because I'm a big, inconsiderate bitch. Did it phase my darling boyfriend? Not in the least. In fact, he loved it. Later I tried to apologize and Micah would hear none of it.
Earlier in the evening Micah and I were sitting at a table in the yard with two of my cousins from Texas. Suddenly my cousin Leonetta (Kent's wife) calls out to me. "Gabby! Come here!" (She's demanding like that.) So I got up and sat next to her about 20 feet from where Micah was sitting. She wanted the scoop. I'd already knocked back several vodka & Sprites, so I was in the mood to talk. Especially with Leonetta, who is all spit-fire and little shame, a woman whose eldest daughter (my age) regularly calls her with boy troubles. I started talking and I didn't take a breath, so happy that someone in the family wanted to know the dirty details of how I came to know Micah. And the details, they are a bit dirty, partially because I attended Micah's wedding some 5 years prior. But Leonetta? Not phased. (Not Catholic.)
During this conversation, Leonetta said what others have delicately phrased to me in the past - that Dave, my ex, wasn't right for me. I simply LOVE how no one will express those thoughts to you when you're actually in the middle of going down the wrong path with the wrong person. I guess everyone figures that it's not their place to say something, which I understand because I have been there myself, but the unabashed confidence and know-it-all attitude they project after the fact is bothersome. I mean, what would have happened if I'd actually married Dave? Would my friends and family, who all claim they knew Dave wasn't right for me, say something to me about it? Or would they have let me walk down the aisle with no more than a raised eyebrow that I wouldn't even notice because they were staring at my back?
Now, I totally agree (obviously) that Dave wasn't right for me. I appreciate everyone's concern (and their Micah is so cute! sentiments). I too adore the fact that Micah has a job that he loves. He has a future. He can save money. He looks me in the eye and tells me everything I have ever wanted to hear. Micah is everything Dave wasn't and showed little potential to be. I guess I just wasn't aware that everyone thought he was wrong for me. Because seriously? I would've liked to hear some dissension among the ranks. Sometimes people watching a relationship have more perspective than the ones actually in the relationship.
The point, though round-about, is that they all approve of Micah and aren't afraid to tell me. If I'd been paying attention 3 years ago with Dave, I'd have noticed the lack of such approval. When people don't like it, they won't say anything. When they love it, you'll know.
While we were driving home that night, I felt a special affection for my family that I don't usually feel, and it was inspired by something wonderful that Micah said to me (seriously, he says wonderful things to me all the time):
"I can see now why you're so awesome. You're family is so smart, classy, funny...I'm so glad I got to meet them all."
"Well good, because they'll be your family too someday," I responded.
"I know. I'm really happy about that."
Um...whoa. Wake me up when he does. If we'd rather sleep forever, let us.7.01.2006
at least I don't watch The View
I'm about to tell you something disturbing.
I have a 35-year-old married mother living in my body.
How else could I explain the following:
1) I read a lot of blogs, at least 28 on a daily basis, and 27 out of 28 of those blogs are written by mothers. The last is written by a father. 1/2 of them have had infertility problems. What's weird is that I first discovered how wonderful loyally reading a good blog can be by reading that one father's blog. It started with a dad. He was such a sharp writer that I overturned every last nook in his archive, which took me two weeks of reading it at least 4 hours a day. When you read that much about someone you can't help but feel you know them personally. The fact that it's a one-sided relationship is hardly the point. When I was finished reading his archives, I looked at his list of blog links and clicked on the first one: amalah.com.
She's a new-ish mom. She struggled with infertility. She lives in D.C. with her cute food-critic husband. She's pretty and she's fucking HILARIOUS. Still the first blog I check every morning. Then I started exploring the links on her page, and the rest is history. For some reason, I find "mommy blogs" incredibly entertaining, often inspiring, and occasionally heartwrenching. I wish I could say I got into this mommy blog thing after I became involved with M (what with all the damn, dude, you make me want to BREEEED thoughts going on) but nay, that isn't true. I think I like them so much because most of them are young mothers doing the baby thing for the first time, and the ways in which they express the craziness of it is so unapologetically candid (they still say fuck! they clean baby poo off walls!) and I guess it's comforting to see that having children doesn't mean you have to give up who you are.
2) I am obsessed - OBSESSED - with this site called True Wife Confessions. Talk about candid! The site is exactly what it sounds like: a bunch of wives send in something they'd like to confess, usually in regard to their husbands, and someone posts them all. It's SO GOOD. You don't have to be a straight married woman to appreciate it. Really.
3) I cook a lot. I didn't used to. It has everything to do with M, and I'm okay with that. Cooking is a lot more enjoyable when there is someone to share it with, someone that always asks if there's more when he's finished. The need for a cute apron has crossed my mind - I've even thought about making it myself - and do people even wear aprons anymore?
4) I JUST SAID I WANTED AN APRON. AND THAT I MIGHT MAKE IT MYSELF.
5) I am trying to grow motherfucking herbs on my back porch. To cook with. (If these fucking cats don't stop messing with my herbs I will consider dismemberment. I have really bad plant-growing skills and they are not helping by attempting to dig them up. Ungrateful little bitches. One of the plants is catnip. You think they mess with that one? Naaah.)
6) The fact that I got to 5 reasons makes me sort of ill. I'm going to stop this madness now and go do something a 35-year-old mommy would never do. If that's possible.
7) But first I'm going to see if True Wife Confessions was updated.
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